Winter Has Come
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: All things considered, it's actually quite natural to be wary of your half brother when he's in league (and in bed) with the last of the Targaryen Dynasty.


**Winter Has Come**

Was the wine Dornish?

She couldn't tell. It wasn't that she wasn't used to wine, having drunk a fair bit of it while in King's Landing, but over her years of captivity, for her, wine was wine. She drunk it, she smiled, she played the role a hostage was supposed to play. To sing as any caged bird was supposed to, lest they be taken out of the cage and fed to a cat. Still, sitting in the Great Hall of Winterfell, watching the red liquid swill around in the goblet, Sansa Stark suspected it was Dornish. It had a tell-tale sweetness to it that you didn't get in cooler climes. Maybe that was why it was here – shipped from a land of eternal summer to one of eternal winter. All she knew was that she didn't particularly like the taste.

She poured herself a third goblet. And she was about to drink it when the doors to the hall burst open.

"Thus the King in the North graces me with his presence," she murmured. She took a sip, then a swig. It tasted terrible.

"Sansa."

"Or is it King of the Seven Kingdoms? Granted, I know Cersei's cunt is still on the Iron Throne, but it's had so many people sit on it in recent times, it probably doesn't mind too much."

"Sansa."

"Lady of Winterfell." She leant forward, swirling the goblet in her hand. "I think we need to use proper titles now. I mean, your latest ally has so many, I can barely keep count."

"You can't keep count because you're drunk."

"Not drunk. This is only my third."

"Doesn't change the fact that you're still drunk." He paused. "And forgotten how to count."

She didn't bother rising to that accusation. She knew that she was on her third. She knew that at this moment, she could say anything, to "soon it won't matter that I'm drunk because we'll all be dead soon" to…

 _Huh._

She leant back in the chair, taking another sip. Maybe she was drunk, hence why she couldn't think of anything else to say outside of "we're fucked" slightly more eloquently. Still, if these were her last days in the world, she was going to spend them how she liked.

If Jon Snow wanted to take part in those days, he was welcome to do so…to a point.

"We need to talk," he said. He pulled up a chair and sat opposite her.

"Do we?" she asked. "I thought you made it clear that we were only to talk about certain things at certain times in certain ways."

"To not talk over me when discussing matters with my fellow lords. I think that's a reasonable enough request."

"Reasonable…" she scoffed, keeping her eyes on the goblet – she hadn't made eye contact with her half-brother as soon as he'd walked in, she wasn't about to start now. "I don't think you're in any position to talk to me about being _reasonable_."

"Sansa-"

"No, Jon, you can't." She leant forward, finally making eye contact with the Bastard of Winterfell – a title that she was a hair's breadth away from actually using. "You don't get to tell me about being _reasonable_ when you bring a Targaryen inside these walls. You can't expect me to be _reasonable_ when you ask my people to break bread with the daughter of the Mad King."

" _Our_ , people," Jon said slowly.

"Are they Jon? Because some are asking. They've been asking about the Lannisters, asking about the Wildlings, asking about the Dothraki. And they're also asking about the Battle of the Reach."

Jon didn't say anything.

"Does Sam know?" Sansa asked. "I've heard rumours of what happened to his brother and father.

Jon didn't say anything.

"He doesn't, does he?" She took a sip. "How long do you think that's going to last?"

"Long as it lasts long enough…"

Sansa blinked – she'd taken Jon for many things over the years. Called him many more, especially when they were children. But for all her sins, and all her taunts, "duplicitous" was never a word that came to mind. Jon was certainly Eddard Stark's son as far as his actions and words went.

But now Ned Stark's son broke bread with the daughter of the one who had murdered their grandfather and uncle. The cousin of the one who had abducted and murdered their aunt. He had presented Daenerys Targaryen to the Lady of Winterfell, and had his half-sister declare that "Winterfell is yours." And having learnt to play the Game of Thrones, Sansa knew she might have been able to stomach that, if she knew that her discomfort was shared by her half-brother. Which he wasn't. At all.

"What do you want from me Sansa?" Jon asked. He got up. "You've heard the stories about the Wall. The White Walkers will be here in weeks."

"And so will the Lannisters," she said. "Aren't they?"

Jon sighed.

"They're not," Sansa said. "And while I'm oh so fine about a pair of dragons hanging around…"

"Sansa, do you know what it'll cost us if we don't win this?"

"Believe it or not, I do. But has it occurred to you what it'll cost us if we win?" She leant forward. "Do we, just, live in peace with the Wildlings with the Wall destroyed, and all barriers between us broken? Do we just submit to Targaryen rule again, when in the space of a single lifetime, my people have declared two separate kings of the north because they wanted nothing to do with the Iron Throne?"

"I have," Jon murmured.

"And? What are your plans?"

"Didn't say I had plans. Just said that I'd considered it."

"But would you be happy answering to Daenerys?" Sansa said. "Just answer me that, if nothing else."

Jon looked aside.

"Jon?" Sansa got to her feet – the wine remained on the table, and what wine was within her had left her head. "Do you love her?"

He paused for what felt like a passing of the world, before whispering, "maybe."

Sansa felt ill. Her half-brother had lied to her. His eyes had given away the truth even if his lips hadn't. Not even giving him a nod, she returned to her chair. Her supposed throne, even if she'd declared that Winterfell belonged to the Dragon Queen now. The Breaker of Chains. The Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. The one with so many titles that if words were soldiers, the White Walkers would be outnumbered 100:1.

She waited for Jon to say something. Anything to assure her that he'd thought beyond his sword and his manhood. But there was no such answer. Winter had come. And she had no desire right now to give him any warmth beyond a cold shoulder.

"Fine," she said, picking up the goblet. "You're the king in the north. You're the one who's faced the White Walkers. You're the one who'll be there when the fight comes. But as someone who's seen more people on a throne than you can imagine, on that…you know nothing Jon Snow."

She didn't bother to even wait for a reaction. She just finished off the goblet of wine. Then started on a fourth.

 _Dornish_ , she thought to herself, as she listened to her brother exit the hall. _Definitely Dornish._


End file.
